In the countries of sleep, there are always borders.
Above a border, there are always stars.
In my doorway is a star
that expands to become a billowing fog
like how when I think of my parents
back in that house, I suddenly feel tired.
Awake at night, I saw the landscapes walking upright like lighted candles.
Late-walked into meadows that closed up like mouthless tombs.
I fall through the floor of a thousand sleepless countries.
A thousand countries fly in low like planes over me.
To migrate is the opposite of rest.
To rest is to make a bed of your own sorry body
and lie down in the middle of your life
unafraid of the pillowing grass
with all the daylight going on.
At 5 p.m., I zipped my past into its own tender suitcase.
At 2 a.m., my weariness traveled like a point along a line.
There is a star in time my mother pointed out for me.
There is a point in the distance where it becomes
less important to dream than it is to sleep.
Hua is a writer and artist. They are currently writing a series of poems about dreams. They love the trees.